“Elly,” said Gaunt. “Elly, we have to focus. We—look at where we are.” But Ellwood only had eyes for him. “I wish I could tell you in my own words,” he said. “But I can’t. And you don’t want me to. ‘Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, / Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving—’ ” “I don’t hate you, don’t be absurd,” said Gaunt, although he did hate Ellwood a little, just then, hated him for his useless, incomprehensible eloquence, which did not belong at Loos, which reminded Gaunt of Preshute and England and things he did not want to think of until he could be sure he would have them
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